Fated
by ClandestinePen
Summary: Written for the JohnLockChallenges Gift Exchange for consulting-ranger based on the prompt: "Star-crossed lovers are not only lovers fated to meet, but lovers fated to be separated." I apologize in advance for the Reichenfeels.


"So, how'd you two meet?"

The woman asking, Ann, is in her early forties, but she's had enough surgery to make her look like she's in her mid-twenties. Sherlock whispered that to me before I sat down, but my eyes are trained enough to recognize the look of people who have been surgically altered. Still, I let him whisper it in my ear. Even when Sherlock is being a prat, I love the sound of his voice.

"A mutual friend," I say. Sherlock has told me that I'm rubbish at lying, and I know it's true. So when I can, I just tell the truth. Or a version of it. Half-truths.

"Set you up on a blind date, did she?" the blond woman asks.

"No. He heard both of us say that we were looking for a flatmate on the same day, so he introduced us," I reply. I steal a glance at Sherlock, but he is in observation mode. His eyes are focused on the woman sitting across the table from us.

This is why I am the one talking to her. Sherlock is the detective, but his penetrating gaze is unnerving to some people. Most people. People that aren't me. So I engage in small talk until the client, or in this case the suspect, gives us a little trust, and he observes. We're quite the team.

"Flatmates? Wasn't that putting the cart before the horse?" She gives us a knowing smile. Ann assumes we're a couple. Just like everyone else does. There was a time when Sherlock would have reached over under the table and kicked gently at my ankle after that comment. _Let her believe it_, the kick would say. _This is a case, and we need her to feel confident. The confident ones always divulge more than they mean to._But I don't need that kick anymore. He's never denied it, and I've given up correcting people. Ever since the Baskerville case, I just let people assume. Even if they're wrong.

"Not at the time," I say. "He warned me he'd be a difficult flatmate, but I didn't believe it until I'd seen it myself." A small joke to lighten the mood. I want to move into talking about her.

"Oh, but it can't be that difficult. You look like it agrees with you," she says. She pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"There are moments." I wink at her conspiratorially, as if my flatmate weren't sitting right next to me. "How about you? How did you and your husband meet?"

"Mutual friends." She giggles. "Mark and I were at the same parties and introduced to each other at least five times before he finally asked me on a date. It was like we were fated to end up together, meeting so many times. But yours sounds like destiny, too. Both of you asking your friend about flatmates on the same day."

"Yeah. You're right. It was a bit like fate," I say. That earns me a quick glance from Sherlock. "What kind of parties? Business?"

"We are both attorneys, but I'm taking some time off," she confirms. Sherlock smiles, then opens his mouth to speak.

* * *

We are back in 221b with trays of hot Thai in our laps. The case is solved, so I've convinced Sherlock to eat something. I'm not sure how he survived before I came into his life to make him tea and insist on sustenance.

"That was brilliant. I can't believe you got her to confess to killing her husband's secretary right there in the middle of the restaurant," I say. "And the way you worked out how she set up the secretary's mother! Amazing."

"I can't believe you're still hungry after we caught a killer over lunch," he replies. He pretends to brush it off, but I know that the downward glance and small smile means he's heard my compliment and is pleased.

"Didn't actually finish my lunch, and that was hours ago. We were at the Yard for a while," I say. "Plus, it's never good to enjoy brandy on an empty stomach." I lift my glass in toast for a job well done, and take a drink.

"Was it the fact that the killer was a woman?" he asks.

"You've skipped ahead again," I say.

"You usually drink a beer after a case, or a long day at the surgery, if you drink any alcohol at all. The brandy is reserved for especially traumatic days. Yet today was more a game of chess than a marathon across London. You had your gun out before she pulled hers all the way out of her bag. She surrendered after that, and made a complete confession to Lestrade. Not hostage situations. No chasing or being chased. No real threat. Conclusion: it must not be the demeanor of the killer but her gender that has caused you to drink brandy tonight." He stares at me, waiting for me to confirm his deductions.

How do I explain it to him? "It isn't just that she's a woman. It's that she's a...nice woman."

"She killed a person. Usually you say that people who kill other people are not very nice." He cocks up an eyebrow as he sets aside his half-finished dinner.

"Yeah, Ann did kill that other woman. But she didn't do it for fun. She knew that her husband was sleeping with the secretary, and that the secretary was blackmailing him with the infidelity and the secrets from cases she'd heard from him. Ann knew that the victim could have ruined her husband. He'd attempted suicide just weeks before, remember? Ann thought she was saving her husband's life. Even with blood on her hands, she had this look about her when she talked about him. She really loved him, Sherlock."

"Love is a vicious motivator. That's nothing we haven't seen before," he says. He doesn't understand, but he does lean forward and refill my glass.

"I know. It was just different this time," I say before I set aside my own tray and raise my glass again.

He doesn't understand, and I can't explain it to him. I could tell him that the thought of killing someone for love always brings me back to the second night I knew Sherlock Holmes: the night I frantically followed a GPS signal to an empty building and took the life of a cabbie to spare his. I could tell him that I understand Ann in her desperate attempts to secure her husband's affections. I see myself in the way that she struggled for him to notice her, to choose her; the way she would do anything for him, kill for him, even when he chooses someone else. I could tell him that it used to annoy me when people mistook us for a couple, but now it just hurts. People assume I am the only one that can break through Sherlock's exoskeleton, that I can take him in my arms whenever I like, but they are wrong. I could tell him all these things, but I'm not. Instead, I tip my glass to my lips and savor the burn of alcohol as it floods my mouth.

"Did you really believe what you said to the killer?" Sherlock asks. He's relaxed against the back of his chair, and his fingers are steepled under this chin as he studies me.

"You have to be more specific."

"Fate."

"Come again?"

"Fate, John. You told her that you believed in fate. Is that true?" He sounds exasperated by my inability to follow the trains of thought inside his head.

Or maybe it's something more. Maybe he has assumed that I do believe in fate, and it annoys him. He is easily frustrated by belief without proof. Facts oriented. If he can't see it, it must not be there.

"Sometimes," I say.

"You sometimes believe in fate or you believe fate is sometimes responsible for the actions you take?" he presses.

My head is swimming a bit as the alcohol takes its hold on me. I'm nowhere near drunk, but I can feel the warmth and lightness of the beginning of intoxication. I drain the glass in my hand before I start to speak.

"I don't believe our whole life is mapped out for us, but I think sometimes things happen because they're supposed to happen," I say.

"Disease? Famine? Addiction? Murder? Are these things fate?" He pours more amber liquid into my glass.

"I'm not sure," I say.

We sit in silence for a while. Sherlock has that distant look to him, like he's far away considering things I could never be fit to imagine. I finish the glass in my hand and one more before he speaks again.

"You have no proof."

"Of what?" I ask. My mind is fuzzier now, and I can't remember where we left off before he lapsed into stillness.

"Of fate. You have no proof. How can you believe something without proof?" I can't tell if he is trying to talk me out of it, or if he is genuinely confused.

"I think I do have proof." His sigh and harsh stare tell me to elaborate. "A few days after I finished CPR training for the first time, I saw a man have a heart attack. He could have had that heart attack anywhere, but he had it at that pub on that night. I was planning on staying in to study, but a friend dragged me out. Yeah, it could have just been random. But to that man, I'm sure it felt like fate."

"And you interviewed all the other patrons to be sure you were the only one in the pub that night who knew CPR?" he asks.

"No."

"Did you check the paper to see if any other people had heart attacks that night alone at home?"

"No."

"Then it wasn't fate. It was fortunate for the man you saved, but it wasn't predestined." He stares at me, daring me to contradict him again.

I am on the verge of speaking, my mouth opening up in readiness, when I remember myself. If I'm not drunk, I'm at least lacking my usual inhibitions. Now is not the time to make declarations. Sherlock raises an eyebrow when I let out a forced yawn and tell him I'm heading up to bed, but he lets me go.

The window is open in my room, and it is a chilly night with the dampness of impending rain. I don't mind, though. The noise of the street helps to ease my mind on most nights. If it gets too quiet, my thoughts drift to unpleasant places. After changing quickly I crawl into bed and shut my eyes. The warmth from the liquor has made me sleepy, and it's easy to drift off.

It may have been the squeak of my floorboards, or his breath on my face, or Sherlock may have called my name. But my eyes blink open to the sight of his pale skin, dark hair, and stunning blue eyes just inches from my face.

"What?" My voice is graved. There is no way to tell how much time has passed, but the sky is still dark outside my window.

"Why do you believe in fate?" Sherlock asks. The words sound soft coming from his lips.

"You said I don't," I say.

"I told you why you shouldn't, but you still do. Tell me why."

"Can't this wait until morning?" I ask.

"No. This has to happen right now," he says.

I sigh and shift over in my bed to make room for Sherlock. This isn't the first time he's come up to my room and woke me in the middle of the night. His mind races, and I think he finds talking to me can help sometimes. Especially when he is trying to puzzle out some part of humanity that is completely foreign to him. He smiles in victory and seats himself on top of my quilt with his back resting against my headboard. I slide up to sit next to him. Our shoulders are gently meeting, but he doesn't shy away.

"Do you remember the first time we met?" I ask him. "You remember when you told me that the worst part about living with you would be the violin and you not talking for days on end?"

"I remember."

"Those are not the most annoying things about living with you," I say. "There's loads more. Body parts in the kitchen. Impossible hours. Drugs busts. Your brother. Shall I go on?"

"What does this have to do with my question?" he asks with a huff.

"Everything. I had a psychosomatic limp and...the nightmares. I carry an illegal firearm, and I'm not afraid to use it. I've got an alcoholic sister that calls me up in the middle of the night to either cry and scream at me. And sometimes I don't want to talk for days on end." I crack a smile as I throw a version of his words back at him. "I can't be content living an ordinary life. Neither can you. Can you think of anyone else in the world that we could fit in with? Do you think this flatmate thing would have worked with anyone else? You would have been out on your arse by the end of the first week, and I'd still use a cane if Mike hadn't introduced us. You think it's luck, or just random. I think that we might have been meant to meet. And I don't care if you think that makes me thick, because you'd think that anyway."

He steals a glance at me that I catch out of the corner of my eye. I'm looking at the ceiling, wishing I hadn't been rehearsing variations of that speech in my head for months. It came out a little too perfect, and I'm afraid he'll notice.

"You could have started a life of crime," he says. "Might have met up that way."

"By the time you meet criminals, they're on their way out of this world," I say with a giggle. Why am I giggling about that?

"Not true. I've taken up with criminals other than murderers. Some of them can be useful." He joins my laughter.

When we grow quiet again, I nudge his shoulder with my own. "I've got to get some sleep," I tell him.

"Of course." He scoots himself forward to swing his feet off my bed.

"Why did we have to talk about this tonight?" I ask when he pauses by the bedroom door.

"Your blood alcohol level was peaking. It's the best time to get answers out of you." He smiles and winks, then closes my door behind him.

I think back to the times he's genially provided me with alcohol only to later appear in my bedroom with pressing questions. If my brain weren't so fuzzy, I might be able to make a list. For now, there are too many and the thought is strangely amusing. I fall back asleep with a smile on my face.

* * *

Laura is pretty. She would be even more pretty if she would use a lighter hand with her makeup. But under the thick smoky shadow, her soft brown eyes still twinkle with kindness. It's what gave me the courage to ask her out the first time.

If I could, I'd have a six date minimum before introducing any woman to Sherlock. Even longer for someone like Laura. But I can't, because he won't allow it. He doesn't say so, but he always has a way of showing up or texting me with an irresistible case.

_Dead body and Anderson's wife found out about Donovan. Come at once._  
_SH_

_Victim impaled in the back of the head with wooden coat hanger. Impaled, John. _  
_SH_

_Lestrade came to flat. Suspect has identical twin, and each blames the other. Meet at the Yard?  
SH_

_Did you forget that the X-Factor is on tonight? Bring home milk._  
_SH_

Then I make excuses and end the date early. Most women only stand for that once or twice. But things were going to be different with Laura. Laura is the settling-down type. She's sweet, and funny, and she counts Skyping as a date. She is patient, and was never angry when I had to reschedule.

Yes, Laura is different. She's special. Which made it doubly crushing when she popped over to the flat unexpectedly to surprise me with takeaway. Only instead of me at home, she found Sherlock. And instead of engaging discussion over curry with me, she had the joy of listening to Sherlock list off her faults, foibles, and childhood trauma. I come up the steps just as she's slamming the door behind her.

"Laura? What happened? What are you doing here?" I ask.

"I came here to see you. Surprise you," she says. "But you weren't here."

"What did he say to you?" I ask knowingly.

"He's such an awful man!" she screams. "So awful! How can you share a flat with him?"

I'm taken aback, as I've never heard her raise her voice. "Let's get some coffee. We can talk."

"Is he always going to be here?" she asks. "You're a doctor. Can't you afford your own flat?"

"Laura, let's go talk. We're going to disturb the landlady," I say calmly, summoning my patience.

"He wouldn't stop, even when I told him I didn't want to hear any more. He smiled when he was talking. He's sick. He's sick and he's awful and horrible. How could you share a flat with him, John?" She is growing into hysterics.

"That's enough," I say. "He's blunt, and overbearing. But he's my friend. I know you're upset, but I won't let you talk about him like that."

"Oh, is that how it is?" She sounds incredulous and her eyes widen manically. "Well, you enjoy him them. Enjoy a life of sitting in that flat with him listening to every awful thing he can think of. Because I will tell you this, John Watson, no one will be able to tolerate him. Even if that's the price to be with you."

I try to reason with her, to convince her that a nice meal will calm her nerves, then we can talk. But she is unreachable. Whatever he said to her, he cut her to her core. She apologizes as she leaves, but still she leaves. I climb the stairs slowly.

"You want to explain?" I ask Sherlock. He is sitting in his chair rubbing rosin on his bow.

"She wanted to trap you into a relationship with a pregnancy. She told you she was taking birth control, but she wasn't."

"Sherlock." I'm exasperated with him. "You can't just list off deductions you make on every woman I bring home."

"You didn't bring her here. She came on her own. Did you give her the address or did she find it out on her own? I suspect she might have spied it on your desk or checked your wallet after you fell asleep at her flat five nights ago. Don't worry. She isn't due to ovulate for another two to three days. Unless you copulated-"

"That's enough," I say. "Please. That's enough."

He nods and turns his attention back to the bow in his hands.

"Is there ever going to be a woman that's good enough?" I ask.

"For what?" he asks.

"For me. For a long time. Longer than a few weeks or months."

"Why do you need to have one for a long time? Are you having trouble finding short term ones?" He sounds curious instead of teasing.

"That isn't...the point is..." I sigh heavily. "Sherlock, I might like to settle down one day."

"You know you aren't meant for that," he says.

I stiffen at the accusation. "Sherlock, sometimes people need more than just the occasional bedmate." Is the double meaning lost on him, or does he catch it? "Every time I start to show interest in a woman, there you are. Then she runs. What am I supposed to think about that?"

"That you have poor taste?"

"I'm being serious," I warn him. "I don't want to be alone for the rest of my life."

"You aren't," he says. "You do have a flatmate and a series of lovers."

"Sometimes people want more than that."

"What more is there?" Again, he's curious.

"We need milk. I'll make a run to the store," I say. He lets me leave, and I come back totally pissed several hours later. When I stumble into my bedroom, my quilt is drawn back waiting for me to crawl under it. The window is open again, but my bed is exceptionally warm. I fall into a dreamless sleep, and this time Sherlock lets me sleep the whole night.

* * *

Sherlock leans against me as we climb the stairs to our flat. The scent of his soap, his sweat, and the smoke from the killer's cigarette swirl together in my nose from his proximity. He curses under his breath on every other step, when he has to use his right leg.

"Almost there," I remind him.

"I know that," he practically growls. "I know how many steps there are to the flat, and which ones squeak. Could you tell me that? Can you tell me which step is the next one to emit a noise?"

"You're so endearing when you're in pain," I say.

Once we are up to our flat and he is sprawled out on the sofa, I can properly examine his ankle.

"I'll get some ice," I tell him. "It will be easier to examine once I get that swelling down."

For a moment, I think he's going to stick his tongue out at me like the child that he is. Instead he snatches up a book from under the cushion where his head rests and sticks his nose in it. Good.

With the ice pack, a pair of tiny white pills, and an elastic bandage in hand, I return to the sofa and lift his feet out of my way so I can sit at the end. I extend my arm to him, the painkillers resting in my palm. Sherlock picks them up with his long, bony fingers without even looking and pops them in his mouth. He doesn't look out from behind the book as I gently remove both his shoes and socks. He jumps a little when I press the ice to his swollen ankle, but doesn't make any noise of acknowledgement. When the swelling has gone down enough to palpate, I can feel no break and tell Sherlock so. There is more swelling, so I return the ice to his ankle.

"You still caught him," I say. He doesn't respond. "You gathered the evidence. You made the case to Lestrade. Your investigation is going to lead to justice. Just because the police physically caught him doesn't mean that you didn't catch him, too."

"If a cat chased a mouse into the claws of another cat, would the first cat's belly feel full?" he asks.

"No, but if the mouse was a dangerous criminal then the cat should still feel a sense of pride and accomplishment," I say. My right hand continues to hold the ice on his right ankle, but my left hand slides over to his other foot. I gently start squeezing the places where there is tension.

"I miscalculated," he says. "I didn't anticipate the trap door on the theater stage."

"You were still fantastic," I say.

He lowers the book to his chest and closes his eyes. After twenty minutes of cold, I set the ice pack aside. I gently start to rub his right foot, watching his face for signs of discomfort. He is still, as always when he is lost in thought.

It started off as friendly. Well, as friendly as one bloke rubbing another bloke's feet can be. But there is something beautiful about Sherlock's face as it relaxes under the movements of my hands. I watch the skin of his forehead smooth out and his jaw grow slack. Knowing that my touch, even my limited touch on just his feet, is changing him gives me a smug satisfaction.

"I can see what you mean," Sherlock says softly.

"About you being fantastic? Smug, are we?"

That brings a grin to his lips, though his eyes remain closed. "No. About the symbiotic nature of our relationship, and the benefits of symbiosis." He wiggles his toes against my fingers.

"Are you saying I was right? Can I get my phone so I can record you saying it again? I'd like a ringtone," I say.

"If this is how you're going to be-" he begins, then he winces as he tries to move his feet off my lap.

"Let me wrap it first," I say. "Then you can mope."

He settles back down, and I begin to wrap the roll of flesh toned elastic around his ankle. After I finish and secure it, I let my hand rest on his calf for a moment. I wish this could happen every night. Not his injury, of course. But sitting on the sofa with Sherlock resting his feet in my lap. Or his head, so I could stroke his hair. And we could watch telly, or I would watch while he read some scholarly article in a forensic science magazine. Then I would switch it off and tell him it's time for bed. He'd come with me. To his bed or mine? His. Mine is smaller.

I shake my head slightly, as if I'm shaking off the fantasy. The momentary joy is never worth the loneliness that inevitably follows.

"Hungry?" I ask. He shakes his head. "Bed, then. You need to rest that ankle."

Sherlock doesn't protest, which is unusual. He accepts the arm I put around him, and places his own on my shoulders as I walk slowly with him to his room. I pull back his blanket and set him down on the smooth sheet beneath. Next, I fetch the cushion from my chair and use it to elevate his right foot. Finally, I make some tea and bring his laptop in with his cup.

"Comfortable?" I ask.

"Almost," he replies.

"What else do you need?"

He sighs. "I have something to say."

"Go on, then," I say.

Instead of talking, he examines his hands folded in his lap. I cross to the other side of the bed and sit on the edge. "Go on, then" I say again, quieter this time.

"The woman from six weeks ago, the one with the cosmetics..." he begins.

"Laura," I remind him.

"You wanted things from her. Not just sexual things," he says. "Can you elaborate?"

"Don't really want to," I say with a little sharpness. I'm still nursing some resentment on that topic.

Sherlock shifts his weight with a squint of discomfort. "I've been thinking but, as you have pointed out before, there are gaps in my knowledge. Attempts to fill those gaps have led me to confusion."

"Here, let me," I say as I lean over him to adjust his pillow to support his lumbar spine.

When I try to back away, Sherlock's quick hand catches the collar of my jumper and holds me just in front of his face. My mouth parts in surprise, and I stare into his eyes. Confusion: yeah, I can see it. And something more. Like he's tossing an idea around, unsure of his next move. His breaths grow shallow, and his eyebrows push together.

Some part of me knows where this is going, but the rest of my mind refuses to acknowledge it as truth. Even as he inches closer to me and my heart pounds into my ears, I'm not sure. I refuse to believe it, until his lips finally touch mine.

Sherlock's lips are soft, just barely grazing my sensitive skin. When he pulls back, I follow him and return the kiss. Mine is harder, as I press against him and take his bottom lip between mine.

We're both panting softly as we pull apart and look at each other. I can't imagine what my face says to him. Do I look shocked? Terrified? Thrilled? Eager? His eyes are wide. What is that? Disbelief? Regret? No, not regret. Please, not that.

"Sherlock," I whisper.

"Alright?" he asks. Just a breath, floating the word to my ear. It's so unlike the night by the pool when he shouted this same question at me, more like a command than a genuine concern. That night he almost lost me. Tonight, he may have found me.

I nod. "Better than alright," I reply. "You?"

"Yes. That was fine. Better than fine."

"Want to do it again?" I ask. I hope that my tone isn't pleading, because I don't want to beg. I want him to say yes without me having to beg. My fingers reach toward his face, but I don't make contact yet.

He nods, just a quick jerk of affirmation. That's all I need. My fingers drift over his cheek, brushing a gentle caress onto his skin. His hand releases its hold on my collar, and instead drifts up my chest to my neck. The tips trace the line of hair at the back of my neck, then push down and pull me back to him.

The first kiss was a question. "Is this alright, John? Is this what you want from me?"

The second kiss was an answer. "Yes, Sherlock. It's wonderful. Yes, I do want this from you."

These kisses we are sharing now, they are mutual. It's alright. Allowed. We've both said so. We've each answered the question for the other.

He is pulling me to him. His left arm is wrapped around my waist and trapping me against him. His right hand is still resting on my neck, with his fingers moving in slow circles. My right hand is holding me up as I lean over him, and my left hand slides up his side, over his shoulder, up his neck, and finally into his hair. Oh, I've wanted to run my hand through his loose curls for so long I can't remember a time when I didn't. He makes a sound, a hum of approval, and it encourages me. I shift my weight. He realizes what I'm doing right away, and pulls. He wants me over him, on top of him.

_Oh, Sherlock_.

"Damn!"

I pull away at his exclamation and the tension that took hold of his body. Oh, his ankle. I must have knocked into it with my foot.

"I'm sorry. Are you alright?" I let my hand fall from his hair and sit up to check the damage.

"Fine. It's fine, John. Leave it alone." He sounds frustrated. Frustrated with the interruption, or the pain? I can understand both.

"You should rest, Sherlock," I say. He starts to protest, but I raise my hand to quiet him. "Doctor's orders."

"John." He calls to me when I'm at his door, about to walk out. "Don't go. We don't have to...we don't have to tonight. Just...stay."

"I was planning on it," I say with a grin. "Just going to change into some pyjamas."

Sherlock doesn't speak when I come back into the room. He stays on the right side of the bed, with the blanket turned down on the left to tell me where my place is. As if it could ever be anywhere other than at his side. His body is warm next to mine. The muscle and bone of my arm is a perfect fit for the curve of his neck. His even breaths lull me to sleep in a way traffic or crickets or those damn relaxation discs I got from my therapist never could.

We should have done this ages ago.

* * *

I wish. Oh, I wish it would have been me. Why couldn't it have been me?

Everyone thinks they know the story, but they only know half the story. Moriarty's half. The half that made the papers and gets discussed on the telly. The story where Sherlock is a fraud, a man so obsessed with his image that he would kidnap children and murder people and invent a nemesis for the sake of recognition.

But my Sherlock never cared what anyone else thought of him. If he did, even a little, maybe the doubt wouldn't have surfaced so easily. Maybe the people he worked with wouldn't have been so quick to believe a lie. It wouldn't have been so easy to hate him.

He cared about one thing. He cared about puzzles. Not for admiration, or fame, or fortune. If it weren't for me, he would have never seen a paycheque. He was always trying to silence his mind, satisfy the constant buzzing of thoughts and ideas and obsessions. The only way he could do that was to entertain it completely with a puzzle so difficult no one else could solve it. So he volunteered at the Yard. He took on private cases that rated high enough on his scale of interest.

And, most recently, he took me. Sherlock would puzzle over me. He worked out the details of my past and my present, my hurts and my pleasures, my mind and my soul. I was the experiment that was always available to him, always willing. I worried that he would work out everything there was to know about me, then toss me aside like he did with cases he'd solved. But that day didn't come. If he hadn't...

If he were still here, I think he'd find a new way to know me. Even if we'd had years. Decades.. The flat would be filled with his sweet music as he composed the most aesthetically pleasing sonata for me based on my response to his steady hand playing other people's works. Then he would take me to bed and spend hours calculating and comparing my pleasure and his to devise the perfect night. His hands would caress every inch of my skin, testing for sensitivity. His lips would taste me, and he would look like a scientist and a lover at the same time. His eyes would follow me as I made my way down his body, touching and exploring. He would steal my laptop and put eyeballs in the sugar bowl and rifle through my journal hidden under my mattress and send me after criminals while he lurked in the shadows working out the solutions to his precious puzzles.

Sherlock Holmes would have always been absolutely mad. Completely brilliant. Unerringly amazing. And Sherlock Holmes would have always been mine, because I would have always been his. There was a part of him missing when I first met him, and that part was shaped like me. I know, because the hole in my heart is shaped like him.

I wait for him.  
I wait for him in our flat on Baker Street.  
I wait for him to burst through the door and tell me of the clever way he faked it all so I can shower him with insults and praises.  
I wait for him because I don't want to imagine a world in which there is no longer a Consulting Detective.  
I don't want a world without a man that can see through me like I'm made of glass but misses the most obvious things. Like my love for him. He missed that for far too long. I didn't have the chance to make up for the time we'd missed.

But that is the world he left me in. That is the world that he created while I watched, helpless and too far away to catch him.

My phone buzzes with a text. I pick it up and push a button.

_Anderson is going on vacation next month. Ever thought about forensics? Greg_

I let the corners of my mouth raise half a centimeter. Sherlock and I shared so much here at 221b. We shared stories and meals and our bodies. But I feel him the most when adrenaline is thundering through my veins or there's a puzzle that needs solved. There are ways in which, even if fate has divided us, we can be together.

Sure, Greg. Let's talk it over.


End file.
